


Still Standing Tall

by Cassie Morgan (BADFalcon)



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2004-06-20
Updated: 2004-06-20
Packaged: 2020-08-20 20:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BADFalcon/pseuds/Cassie%20Morgan
Summary: A brutal attack leaves Jon traumatised and sinking deeper into depression. He needs to learn to trust his friends again before he can start to heal. But is there anything they can do to help him on the long road to recovery?





	1. Chapter 1

“C’mon, how was I supposed to not notice her the way she was shaking her breasts at me!” Jon pointed out indignantly. “You can’t honestly tell me you didn’t see her.”

Richie quirked an eyebrow. "Have you seen Heather recently?” He leered jokingly. “I don’t need to look!”

“Ha!” Jon exclaimed, grinning triumphantly. “I knew it. You were checking her out!”

Richie squeezed his eyes closed, pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten under his breath. Very slowly. Sometimes, post-concert hyperactive Jon could be too much for him to handle, especially at the end of a tour, but those occasions were very rare. He loved sitting down, just the two of them, Jon’s full attention on him. Smiling inwardly, Richie opened his eyes.

“No, Jon. I wasn’t checking her out.” Richie was impressed with himself - he managed to sound a lot calmer than he felt; Jon’s mood was infectious, his grin affecting Richie more than the guitarist would ever admit. “But, yeah. I did see her. You ought to be careful, Jon, or you’re gonna get yourself into trouble again.”

Jon shook his head, expression turning serious. “No way. Those days are over, there’s no way I’m gonna risk losing Dorothea again.” He laughed, the grin returning. “But I’m married, man, not blind!”

Richie didn’t have chance to respond as Jon turned to the bar, handing his card to the barman to pay for their drinks.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but if you’re going to pay by card I need to see some identification.”

“Identification?” Jon echoed, a slight hint of incredulity in his tone.

“It’s company policy,” the barman explained apologetically.

Jon shrugged, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Flipping through it, he swore. “My driver’s license is in my jacket back in my room,” he told the barman, who shrugged and handed Jon his card back before moving on to the next customer. 

Jon glared daggers after him, sitting back down with a huff. “I’m fucking Jon Bon Jovi,” he whined at Richie. “I don’t need ID!”

Richie bit his lip, trying his hardest to keep a straight face and not laugh at Jon’s indignation. “You want me to pay?” he offered.

Jon shook his head, “Nah, I won’t be a second, k?” He walked away, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, muttering under his breath about kids not old enough to be out of diapers who were serving in bars. 

He was still ranting to himself as he rounded the corner on the approach to his room. Pulling his wallet out of his pocket again, he was just about to open his door using the key card when a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Well now, look here boys. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we just found ourselves Jon Bon Jovi.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jon stopped, slipping his key back in his pocket. Turning, he plastered a smile on his face, faltering slightly as he took in the five men standing in front of them. Dressed in stylish dark suits, their arms were crossed over their broad chests, emphasising the bulging muscles in their arms. 

The pit of his stomach sank as he recognised their type; Mafia wanna-be’s. He’d seen enough of them in his youth to know they could be trouble. And lots of it. He watched as they fanned out across the corridor to reveal a sixth man clad in a pin-stripe suit, obviously their leader, who was leaning against the wall watching Jon intently. Jon’s eyes darted between the men who were now blocking the corridor. His was a corner room at the end of the corridor, so he was basically trapped between them and the wall. His eyes flickered back to the other man and he swallowed heavily, rapidly revising his opinion of the men; maybe it was less of the wanna-be and more of the mafia. 

“Hi.” Jon winced, his cheery tone sounded forced, even to himself.

“I am correct, am I not? You are John Bongiovi.” The man in the pinstripe suit pushed himself up from the wall and circled Jon. 

“Yeah. Yeah I am. And you are?” 

He laughed, stopping to stand in front of Jon. He waved one hand dismissively, gold rings glinting in the fluorescent lighting. “Someone who wishes to speak with you. My name is not important.” Jon frowned, his gaze drifting towards the other men once more. “Do not let them worry you. They are merely ensuring we are not disturbed,” he explained with another flash of gold. “I’m sure you can appreciate how… annoying it is when you’re interrupted in the middle of a conversation.” Jon nodded, able to understand what he was saying, but not liking it. He didn’t trust this guy and was starting to feel very uncomfortable.

“So, uhh, what did you want to talk about?”

An icy smile spread across the other man’s face and he leaned in closer to Jon, one hand reaching in his jacket. The cold steel of a gun barrel was pressed again Jon’s head, behind one ear, the ‘security’ men pressing in closer around them. 

“I don’t think this is something you’d want to discuss in public, if you get my meaning.” 

Jon’s tongue flickered out wetting suddenly dry lips. “Yeah, yeah I get you,” he replied softly, his voice wavering with the fear that was welling up inside of him. 

“Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private. Your suite, perhaps?” He pushed Jon backwards slightly, one hand insinuating itself into the pocket of the singer’s jeans, pulling out the key card. Unlocking the door, he pocketed the key himself. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

Jon shut his eyes; what choice did he have? He was backed up against a wall by a possible mafia-leader who was pressing a gun to his head. And his men were blocking the corridor off. What was he supposed to do? Fight all six, who had God knows how many weapons, with his bare hands? 

He sighed and pushed the door open, taking a shaky deep breath as the gun was pulled away from his head. He was motioned in, the others trailing in after him. Hitting the light switch, Jon moved to stand in the centre of the room, watching with dread and fascination as the 5 man ‘security’ team spread out, pulling the drapes across, shutting all the doors and unplugging the ‘phone.

“Nice place,” their leader commented. “Though I really wouldn’t have expected any less from a man of your calibre.” Arms across his chest, Jon tensed as he watched him walk to stand in front of him, gun still held loosely in his hand. “You’re sweating,” he observed, using the gun to brush away the damp hair sticking to Jon’s forehead. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Jon forced a laugh. “Nervous? Not at all. Why should I be?”

“No reason whatsoever. Relax, Mr Bongiovi, I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk to you about your show this evening.”

“The gig?” Jon frowned. “You were there.”

“We were, yes. We’re all very big fans of your work and allow me to congratulate you on a wonderful concert. There was just one little thing I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” Jon’s head was reeling; he couldn’t work out for the life of him what was going on here. “Uhmm thanks. Glad you had a good time. So, what was it you wanted to, err, discuss?”

“A girl.”

“A girl?” Jon repeated, confused. 

“Yes, you may have seen her. About 5 foot 10, long curly blonde hair, legs that seem to go on forever, and a pair of breasts to be proud of. If I’m correct, she would have been in the front row.”

Jon paled slightly; that sounded like the girl he and Richie had been talking about only a few minutes ago in the bar. Bile rose in his throat; he’d been checking out the girl of a mafia ringleader? He didn’t answer, not knowing what they wanted him to say. 

With a snarl, the other man backhanded Jon across the face, rings slashing his lip open. Automatically, Jon brought his hand up, flinching at the sight of blood on his fingers. His tongue found the split as he looked back up, breathing heavily as the adrenalin coursed through him.

“I asked you a question, Mr Bongiovi. I would appreciate it if you would answer.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah. I seen her.”

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

Jon hesitated; what was he supposed to say? Either way would only get him into more trouble. He nodded.

“Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

Jon swore under his breath. “Yeah, she’s pretty,” he winced as his voice wavered. 

The icy, calculated smile returned. “She also happens to be my pretty little thing. And I do not like the idea that anyone could take her away from me. Of course, I’m not suggesting that you would do such a thing as I believe you are married with three wonderful children…”

“Leave my kids out of this,” Jon interrupted, his eyes narrowing, hands bunching into fists at his sides.

“Do not worry yourself, your wife and children are perfectly safe. No harm will come to them. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, smiles from rock stars can promise… things to naïve girls. But just in case you were, shall we say, in need of certain home comforts, I thought I should make it very clear that this particular girl is completely out of bounds.”

“That would never be an issue.” Jon re-iterated, his annoyance leaking through.

“Well, I’m glad we have that cleared up. Thank you for your time, Mr Bongiovi.” Signalling to his men, he turned his back on Jon and walked towards the door.


	3. Chapter 3

His trail of thought was broken when his arms were wrenched hard behind his back. He struggled but couldn’t break the grip of the men holding him. Twisting to look at his captors, he shook his head at the stony expressions on the face, the colour draining from his face. He looked back around to where the pin stripe suited man had pulled up a hard-backed chair from the desk and was watching him intently.

“Hey, c’mon man. What’s going on here? I already told you I wasn’t interested in your girl. Call your goons off!” There was a definite note of panic in Jon’s voice as he pleaded, but the other man never even blinked. Jon cried out as one of his arms was twisted up again his back. He stumbled forwards, but stopped struggling for fear of having his arm broken. “Fuck! Ok, Ok, I got it; I really got it, man. Your girl is completely off limits. So, c’mon, what you say? Get these two to let me go and we can all just get on with our lives. Or not,” he noted, eyes widening as one of the black-clad men in front of him rolled up his shirt sleeves and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, God, no. Please, no…”

Jon’s begging was cut short by a fierce volley of blows to his stomach that left him winded and doubled over, held up only by the grip on his arms.

“Don’t do this…” A sharp blow to his chin knocked his head back and left him seeing stars, the impact causing him to bite his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the punches that were coming at him almost continually. Every time his head dropped down against his chest, it was knocked back as the blows continued, his stomach, chest and face targeted. 

He was dropped to the floor, his legs buckling after a brutal kick to the backs of his knees. A thump to the centre of his back left him feeling nauseous, his head spinning after a blow to the back of his skull. More blows and kicks rained down on him as he curled into a ball on the floor, trying his best to protect himself. 

The assault ended with a harsh kick to his kidneys, the foot pushing him onto his side so the man in the pinstriped suit could see the result of the attack. His face was covered in cuts and would be very bruised by the morning, one eye was swollen shut and blood trickled from his nose. He ached from head to foot and felt sick to his stomach, his head still spinning from the blows to it. Jon rolled back on to his stomach, arms wrapped around his body, resting his throbbing forehead against the carpet. 

“He ain’t so pretty now, boss,” one of his assailants commented. 

“What did you say?” he asked, as he crouched down next to Jon. 

“He… he ain’t so pretty no more,” came the repeated, slightly unsure reply. 

With another cold smile, the ringleader pulled at Jon’s hair, tugging his head around to face him. It took all the effort Jon could muster, but he spat in his face, making the other man laugh, before dropping Jon’s head back down, laughing as it hit the floor with an audible thump. 

“You’re right, he is a pretty one. I hadn’t noticed. Why didn’t I notice?” the question was rhetoric and his men knew better than to answer. “And we all know the one thing pretty boys excel at above all others….” He stood and turned to one of his men. “You know what to do,” he told him as he unfastened the zip on his trousers. 

Jon’s stomach sank; he’d been hoping his ordeal was over, but it was starting to look like they were only getting started. He tried to curl into an even tighter ball but it hurt too much, so he just lay there, waiting. 

He didn’t have to wait long. He grunted in pain as one of the henchmen pushed their knee into the small of his back, winding him. 

“Give me your arms, pretty boy,” he snarled into Jon’s ear. When Jon didn’t respond, his pushed his knee harder into Jon’s back, and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head up. A knife was pressed against Jon’s Adams apple, the blade sharp and cold against his skin. “I said, give me your arms.”

Feeling sick, Jon slowly unwrapped his arms from around himself and placed them behind his back, groaning as the movement stretched his already aching muscles. The pressure on his back eased as the other man stood, pulling two lengths of rope from his jacket. Jon struggled weakly as his wrists were tied together, the fight draining out of him as he accepted the inevitable; he was in no fit state to go up against these men who were armed and outnumbered him six to one. He whimpered as the knots were tightened, the rope cutting into his bruised skin. 

Another rope was tied around his elbows, pulling his arms back awkwardly, the strain almost unbearable on his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed against the pain. A hand tangled in his hair and he was roughly tugged to his knees, moaning as a wave of dizziness washed over him. 

Opening his eyes, Jon blanched as he saw the man in the pin stripe suit saunter over to stand in front of him, cock hanging out the open fly of his trousers.

“I think you know what to do,” he told Jon

Jon turned his head to the side, breathing heavily through his nose. The other man sighed and reached out, grabbing Jon by the chin, forcing his head back. Jon refused to look at him, closing his eyes instead. 

Placing one hand on Jon’s already tender shoulder, he braced himself on the joint as he leaned over, reaching into the pocket of Jon’s jeans. He drew out his wallet and stood back again, flipping through it. He pulled out a photograph and smiled to himself. 

Gripping Jon’s chin tightly in his hand, he held the photo out to him. “This your family?” he asked conversationally. Jon swallowed and opened his eyes, looking at the picture. “I’m guessing this must be your little girl. She’s a pretty child. How old is she, John? 9, maybe 10, I would say."

“Leave her alone,” Jon spat.

Laughing, the man in the pin stripe suit ripped the photograph up into tiny pieces, letting them scatter to the carpet. “If you behave yourself, your family remain unharmed. If, on the other hand, you don’t…” he trailed off, the unfinished threat hanging heavily in the air between them. 

“You bastard,” Jon whispered. “You fucking bastard!” He pulled himself to his feet, but was knocked back down to the floor by a punch to the side of the head. He was hauled back to his knees, swaying slightly as his head reeled. 

Running a knife down the side of Jon’s face, the man in the pin stripe suit moved to stand in front of him again. “Now, are you going to do as I asked?”

Jon swallowed heavily, the heat rising in his cheeks. His tongue flickered out to wet his dry, swollen lips as his eyes trailed down the other man’s body to his cock. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. 

With a satisfied smile, he sat back down in the chair, watching Jon expectantly. The singer looked ashamed and disgusted as he shuffled forward on his knees. Jon paused as he reached him, rocking back on his heels and looking up.

“Please,” he begged. “I can’t… Not this, please.”

“You can and you will.” He reached out and cupped the back of Jon’s head, jerking his head forward. Jon grimaced as his lips touched the head of the mafia leader’s cock, tongue flickering out hesitantly to taste it. Screwing his face up, he took the tip of it into his mouth, sucking gently. The other man gasped at the contact, before taking control of the situation once more. He pushed hard into Jon’s mouth, his cock brushing the back of Jon’s throat. 

Jon gagged, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to breathe, trying to pull back but the grip on his head was too strong for him to twist away from. He tried to relax as the other man brutally fucked his mouth. His insides twisted, the laughter, jeers and cheers of the other men ringing in his ears.

He collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath when he was pushed away by the other man. He’d barely had time to recover from the oral assault when he was pulled up by a tight grip on the back of his neck. He was propelled over to the bed and pushed face down over it from the waist. Panic coursed through him as he realised what was happening and he started struggling with all his might, kicking out at his captors. The grip on his neck tightened as his jeans were stripped from his body, his legs kicked open. 

“Oh fuck, no! Get off me, stop it, get your fucking hands off me. You can’t do this, don’t do this, please, no” Jon’s protests were muffled as they forced his face against the bed sheets. 

He froze as he felt the cold steel of the knife blade pressing against his balls. “Shut up and stay still, or lose these.” 

Jon whimpered but stilled, sobbing with each breath. He cried out when he felt the head of a cock pressing against him. He bit down on his bottom lip, tears coursing unchecked down his face. His hips were grabbed in a bruising hold and his assailant entered him in one hard push, tearing the sensitive muscles. 

Every thrust was sheer agony that left Jon screaming into the sheet, welcoming the darkness that enveloped him as he slid into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Richie glanced down at his watch again and frowned; what was taking Jon so long? He’d only gone to his room. He shook his head and sighed, signalling the bartender and paying their tab in cash, before slipping his jacket off and wandering in the direction of their rooms. 

No doubt something had distracted Jon; it wouldn’t be the first time it had take Jon forever to complete a simple task, but for him to not turn up at all was a new one on Richie. 

He stopped, his fingers on the door handle of Jon’s suite; the door was ajar. Why would Jon have left the door open? Shrugging his shoulders, Richie pushed the door open and slipped inside.

Calling Jon’s name softly, he blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. Glancing around the room, he called Jon’s name again. No reply. His gaze landed on the bed and he smiled fondly to himself; the adrenalin had worn off and Jon had crashed, falling asleep where he landed. 

Opening the door again, Richie had just stepped out into the corridor when he stopped. Something didn’t feel right. Yes, Jon had a habit of crashing when the adrenalin wore off, but it wasn’t like him to just disappear. Especially not when they were in the middle of something, and not without saying goodnight. And since when did Jon sleep curled up in the centre of the bed? He usually sprawled out, taking up as much space as possible.

Richie bit his lip indecisively. He knew he was probably worrying over nothing; Jon was a grown man, after all. But he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was wrong. 

He sighed and opened the door again, fingers reaching for the light switch. Jon was gonna kill him for turning on the lights and disturbing his…

“Fuck!” Richie ran across the room to the bed where Jon laid face down, blindfolded and gagged. His arms were tied behind his back, ankles lashed together. Another rope joined his wrists to his ankles, pulling his back into a harsh arch. 

Crouching down, Richie gently turned Jon’s head to the side, ripping off the blindfold and throwing it to the floor. Jon’s face was pale beneath the blood and bruises, his eyes closed, one swollen shut.

“Jon? Jon, it’s Richie. Can you hear me? Come on, Jonny, open your eyes for me.” Richie begged as he pulled the ball gag out of Jon’s mouth, wincing at the marks the leather straps left on his skin. “Oh, thank God!” The breath Richie didn’t know he was holding left him in a whoosh as Jon’s good eye slowly flickered open, one bloodshot blue eye meeting his own.

Jon licked his swollen lips, swallowing convulsively, heat flooding his cheeks. He squeezed his eye closed, refusing to look at Richie. He opened his mouth to speak, but Richie placed a finger over his lips. 

“Don’t try and speak, Jon,” he told him as he stood, fingers clumsy as he worked the ropes, freeing Jon. He gently lowered Jon’s legs, wincing as the joints cracked from having been in the same position too long. He quickly untied Jon’s ankles and turned his attention to his arms. 

Jon’s shoulders were red from being pulled back so long, his hands cold. Richie bit his lip as he struggled with the knots around Jon’s wrists and elbows. He took a deep shaky breath and ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to calm himself. His fingers were trembling, but he managed to undo them, throwing the ropes to the end of the bed. He gently massaged Jon’s arms helping stimulate the blood flow, closing his ears off to his friend’s moans as the feeling returned, pins and needles rushing through his arms. 

A flash of something caught Richie’s eye and he turned to look, the colour draining from his face at the sight of the dildo sticking out of Jon’s ass. Richie’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, but he forced it back down; now was not the time to fall apart, he had to make sure Jon was OK. Well, as OK as possible, he realised. 

He knelt down next to the bed again, waiting for Jon to turn his head to face him. His heart all but broke at the misery etched on Jon’s face, the silent tears tracking down his cheeks. “Oh, Jon…” he breathed, gently brushing the tears away, relieved when Jon didn’t flinch away from him. Jon shifted on the bed slightly with a moan, wrapping his arms around himself, moving his weight onto one hip. “Jon, I need… I need to take that… that thing out. You gonna let me do that?” Jon blushed even harder, but nodded, still not looking at Richie. 

Jon whimpered, tensing as Richie’s fingers brushed over the dildo. Richie jerked his hand away and rubbed his face, shaking his head. His voice was soft as he spoke to Jon again. “I can’t believe I’m actually gonna say this, Jon, but you need to try and relax.”

Jon snorted, a cross between a dry laugh and disbelief. Richie smiled to himself; that was the response he’d been hoping for. His hands moved to Jon’s lower back, rubbing in what he hoped were soothing circles. Relief flooded through him when Jon still didn’t flinch at his touch, his head dropping forward with a gentle sigh. 

Slowly, Jon’s muscles started to relax under Richie’s ministrations. Still rubbing Jon’s back with one hand, Richie’s finger slid around the dildo and he pulled it out as smoothly as possible. 

Jon grit his teeth, gasping loudly through the pain but it was too much and he slid back down into unconsciousness. Richie pulled the dildo all the way out, dropping it to the floor, frowning at the trickle of blood that seeped down the back of Jon’s thigh. He wiped it away with his fingertip, anger coursing through him, burning away the blanket of numb shock that had descended over him. 

He perched on the side of the bed, running his fingers through Jon’s sweaty hair, trying to calm down. He frowned and pulled his fingers away; they were sticky with blood. Richie’s eyes narrowed - they’d hit him ‘round the back of the head, and hard from the looks of it. Swearing under his breath Richie started to check his friend out for injuries, his anger growing with each discovery.

Jon had rope burns around his wrists, ankles and elbows where he had struggled against his bonds. His shoulders were red and slightly swollen from being pulled back so hard. His back and sides were a catalogue of bruises. 

Richie rolled Jon over as gently as he could so he could check the rest of him. He stumbled back a step, letting out a string of curse words he hadn’t even realised he knew. The bastards had wrapped sandpaper around Jon’s cock, using elastic bands to hold it in place. And the way they’d tied him, his whole weight would have been…. Richie felt the bile rise in his throat again. Oh, God - Jon must have been in agony. 

For the first time, Richie was glad that Jon had passed out as he slowly removed the torturous device. It fell to the floor from his nerveless fingers. He took a deep breath, reluctantly looking back at Jon’s cock. The flesh was covered in weeping grazes where the harsh material had abraded the sensitive skin. That would need cleaning up, Richie realised. 

Stepping away from the bed, Richie winced as he saw the clamps tightly gripping Jon’s nipples. For fuck’s sake, hadn’t they done enough to him already?

“Jon, this is gonna hurt like hell,” Richie told him as he pulled the first clamp off, a drop of blood welling to the surface where it’s teeth had bitten in. Even unconscious, Jon whimpered, pulling away when Richie’s fingers moved to the second clamp. Richie could imagine Jon’s screams ringing in his ears as he pulled it off.

His legs gave out on him and he sank to the floor. Who had done this to Jon, and why? Richie’s eyes widened; how long had Jon been lying there before he found him. Richie moaned. This was all his fault. If only he’d insisted on paying for their drinks then Jon wouldn’t have come back to his room. If only he’d looked for him sooner…

His stomach churned again and he scrambled to his feet, only just making it into the bathroom, as he was sick, tears of guilt streaming down his face. 

He turned, using the sink to haul himself to his feet. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, narrowing his eyes, fingers clenching hard on the porcelain. If he ever caught the bastards that did this to Jon, he’d make them wish they’d never been born!


	5. Chapter 5

A low moan alerted Richie to the fact that Jon had come to again. He took a deep breath and splashed his face with cold water, staring at himself in the mirror. He picked up the glass from the shelf and filled it with water. Having been gagged for God knows how long, Jon would need a drink, he told himself. 

Richie went back into the other room, placed the glass on the bedside locker, and turned his attention back to Jon, who had curled up as much as he could. He was crying, silent sobs wracking his frame. 

Kneeling down on the floor next to the bed, Richie sighed. He was at a loss at what to do. He placed a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, calling Jon’s name softly. 

Jon tensed, one fist flailing out, hitting Richie square in the face. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, voice hoarse as he curled in tighter on himself. 

Richie fell back against the wall, hand going to his face, wiping away the blood from his nose. “Shit!” He shifted position, sitting cross-legged against the wall.

Recognising Richie’s voice through his panic, Jon turned his head to look at Richie. His eyes widened at the blood on his friend’s face and he shook his head. “Richie,” he paused, licking dry lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Richie replied immediately. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. I should be the one apologising.” Jon opened his mouth to speak, but Richie interrupted him. “You… You want some water?”

Jon’s gaze drifted to the glass on the locker and he nodded. He struggled, trying to push himself up into a sitting position, but he was too weak to support himself. He slumped back to the bed dejectedly. Richie stood and handed Jon the glass, holding him up long enough for him to take a sip. 

“Thanks,” Jon whispered. Richie nodded, knowing Jon meant more than for just the drink. Placing the drink back on the cupboard, Richie sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the phone. “Who are you calling?” Jon wanted to know.

“911.”

“N…No” Jon shook his head, grabbing Richie’s arm to stop him from dialling. “Richie, please, don’t. I can’t… I don’t want,” he took a deep breath. “I don’t want anyone to know… to know what’s happened.”

Richie nodded, replacing the handset. “Ok, no cops,” he agreed, turning Jon’s head, forcing the singer to look at him. Jon pulled away, wiping fresh tears away with his hands. “Jon?” Richie sighed when Jon wouldn’t answer him. “I won’t call the cops,” Richie repeated, “but I think you need a doctor. You’re hurt,” he pointed out as gently as he could. 

Jon shook his head again. “I can’t…” he trailed off, pulling away from Richie, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs, fresh tears welling as the position strained his aching joints. He rested his head on his knees, shoulders shaking as he tried to suppress his tears. 

Richie’s heart sank at the sheer misery radiating from his friend. He rubbed his forehead. “Ok,” he agreed. “No doctors either.” He placed a gentle hand on Jon’s arm, waiting patiently for Jon to look at him. “At least let me clean the blood off you,” he continued. “I need to see how badly hurt you are. And sitting like that’s hurting you; I can see it in your face.” Jon nodded. “Lie down while I get a wet cloth,” Richie told him as he stood, walking back towards the bathroom. 

Jon watched Richie leave, breathing heavily as he unfolded himself with a grimace and lay down on the bed. He curled up on his side, his eyelids growing heavy as he waited for Richie. He didn’t have long to wait before Richie was crouched down next to the bed, calling him quietly. Jon blinked, his good eye sliding open sleepily. 

“I know you’re exhausted, Jonny,” Richie smiled tenderly. “But you can’t go to sleep just yet. I want to check you over properly first, OK?”

Jon blinked at him a few times, before nodding and scooting over so Richie could sit down. Richie climbed onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. He patted the bed between his legs, motioning for Jon to sit there. Jon swallowed heavily before settling down, his back against Richie’s chest. He sighed faintly as he relaxed, Richie letting him adjust before touching him.

Neither man spoke as Richie concentrated on wiping the blood off Jon’s face, moving slowly down over his neck and chest, always pausing, waiting for Jon’s consent as he moved to each section of his body. Jon tensed when Richie’s hands moved to his thighs, but he eventually nodded and Richie cleaned all the blood off Jon’s body. 

Jon yawned, his head falling back against Richie’s shoulders, his eyelids drooping. Richie placed the now-dry cloth on the floor next to the bed and carefully tried to slide out from under Jon, lying the other man down as he did.

“Stay?” Jon requested softly. Richie nodded, settling down back against the headboard, pulling the sheet up around Jon. Jon pillowed his head on Richie’s leg with a contented sigh, his arm thrown across his waist, hand clenching and unclenching in Richie’s shirt as he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Richie blinked against the harsh sunlight streaming in through the window. He squeezed his eyes closed and rolled over, muttering to himself. The smell of coffee hung insistently in the air, dragging the guitarist fully awake. He reluctantly opened his eyes, sniffing appreciatively. 

“Hey.” Jon was sitting on the window seat staring outside, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. He gestured to the table. “Pot’s fresh if you want one.”

“Hey yourself.” Richie stumbled out of bed and made his way over to the table. He poured himself a mug of coffee, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. He sat back down on the bed, folding his legs beneath him. He glanced around the room. After Jon had fallen asleep last night he’d cleaned the room up, dumping the ropes, the dildo and everything in the bin, covering them with yesterday’s newspapers so Jon couldn’t see them. He watched Jon closely, but the singer’s focus was on something he couldn’t see. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

Jon took a sip of his coffee before replying. “I didn’t want to wake you.” He turned his attention back outside. “You… Last night, you… You didn’t have to stay.”

“No, I know.”

Jon glanced back at Richie, an almost shy smile on his face. “Thanks.”

Richie nodded. “How you feeling?” he asked carefully.

“Like I’ve just been beaten up by a mafia gang,” Jon deadpanned, quirking one eyebrow. 

Richie laughed. “Ok, yeah. Stupid question I know, but…”

Jon sighed. “Uh… I ache all over, my head’s throbbing and I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t know existed.” He shrugged. “Other than that, fine, I guess.”

“What are you gonna tell the others?”

“Do I need to tell them anything? Come on, Richie, you can see the state of my face. It’s fucking obvious I’ve been beaten up.”

“What about the… the…” Richie trailed off, unable to bring himself to say the word ‘rape’. When Jon didn't reply, Richie looked up from his coffee mug. Jon was pale, shaking his head, eyes fixed on something past Richie. Turning his head to the side, Richie swore at the bloodstains on the bed. He hadn't known… He turned his attention back to Jon just in time to see the singer drop his mug of coffee, the hot fluid scalding his hands. 

"Shit!" Placing his coffee mug on the floor, Richie wrapped one arm around Jon's waist and tugged the unresisting singer to the bathroom. He turned the cold tap on and stuck Jon's hands under the spray. Jon shuddered and hissed, trying to pull away but Richie held him tight. 

Jon moaned as he pulled his hands free, turning and dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. He clutched at the porcelain as he was sick, Richie rubbing his back. Jon flushed the toilet and slammed the seat down, sitting down with a grateful smile to Richie as he handed him a glass of water. "Thanks."

"Not a problem." Richie leaned back against the wall, watching as Jon slowly regained his colour. "Feel better?"

Jon screwed his face up. "Yeah." He put the glass on the floor next to him and sighed, running his hands over his face. "I really hate being sick," he complained, feeling embarrassed that Richie had been there. 

Richie straightened up and placed a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "You stay here and I'll… umm… go clean up in there, ok?" 

Jon nodded and watched Richie walk through the door. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. The sound of the door opening startled him from the light doze he'd drifted off into. His eyes flew open and he gasped as he sat up. Seeing the worried expression on Richie's face he smiled weakly to let him know he was ok. 

"I've got rid of… y'know…."

"Thanks." He stood and followed Richie on shaky legs back into the other room, pouring himself another mug of coffee before settling back down on the windows seat. 

"I'm not sure it's such a good idea for you to be drinking coffee, Jon. You're jumpy enough as it is."

Jon shrugged and took another drink of his coffee. “What time’s our flight?”

Richie frowned at Jon’s subject change, but answered the question. “No flight, remember. They thought we could use some downtime before the meeting so we’re driving back in the bus.” 

Jon pulled a face, wincing as he aggravated a cut on his cheek. “How long’s that gonna take?”

“Dunno,” Richie shrugged. “Two days, maybe three. Meeting’s scheduled for the day after we get there.”

Jon snorted. “Nice to see they’re still as precise as ever. He shifted position so that he could look at Richie, a broad grin on his face. “And then…” he trailed off as Richie’s grin grew to match his own.

“Three weeks at home,” Richie supplied and Jon hummed blissfully. Silence reigned as both men grew lost in thought, the ticking of the clock and the buzzing of the coffee machine the only sounds in the otherwise quiet room.

Jon sighed heavily, his eyes drifting to the phone. “You gonna phone Dave and Tico?”

“You want me to?”

“I guess so.” Jon took a deep breath. “I know if something happened to them and they didn’t ‘fess up I’d be pissed off, so… it’s only fair to tell them, right? Not everything, but… ”

Richie nodded, dialling David’s room. Jon curled back up again, watching the cars go by, trying not to listen as Richie spoke first to David, then to Tico, telling them something had come up and could they come to Jon’s room.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon jumped, nearly spilling his coffee over him when there was a knock at the door. 

“You OK?” 

Jon nodded and Richie frowned, unconvinced, but went to open the door, letting David and Tico in. David yawned as he walked in, making a beeline for the coffee pot. He poured himself a mug, almost dropping it when he saw the bruising on Jon’s face. 

“Jesus, Jon!” David put his mug back down on the table, standing in front of Jon to get a better look at him. “You gonna be alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jon nodded. “You should’ve seen the other guy,” he joked. David smiled weakly, picking his coffee back up.

“What happened?” Tico wanted to know as he sat down on one of the chairs, David taking a seat next him. Richie stayed standing, leaning against the wall, watching Jon closely. 

Jon stayed seated at the window, his voice flat as he told how the gang cornered him and forced him into his room, before threatening and then beating him, leaving out some of the more explicit details he didn’t feel up to repeating. “They started kicking me and… I dunno, I guess I must have blacked out,” he finished, taking a sip of his cold coffee as he waited for their reactions. 

No one said anything, not knowing what to say. Jon became increasingly aware of David’s eyes on him, and he self-consciously pulled down the sleeves of his jumper to cover the rope burns on his wrists. “Stop fucking staring at me.” His voice was low and deadly. “I’m not a freak show.”

David winced. “Sorry, I just…”

“Come on guys, it’s not the first time I’ve come back having had my ass kicked and I’ve been hurt worse than this before.”

“This wasn’t a bar fight though, Jon,” Tico pointed out.

“I noticed. Not something I’m going to forget in a hurry either,” Jon snapped, slamming his empty cup down on the seat next to him. He laughed dryly and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit high-strung right now. I’m gonna take a bath, see if it’ll ease some of these bruises.” He stood, wincing, hand cradling his kidney. Richie was at his side in an instant, arm going around him.

“Jon?”

“I’m OK,” Jon reassured him through gritted teeth. “But next time I decide to get worked over, remind me not to get it done by professionals!” He walked gingerly across his room to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, the running water creating a sound barrier between him and the other room.

David sighed and stood. “I… I gotta go pack, and I promised April I’d phone her before we left.” He looked guiltily over his shoulder at the bathroom as he walked out the door.

Richie sank into the chair opposite Tico, his head in his hands. 

“Richie, what aren’t you telling me?”

Richie looked up and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Tico raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t… It’s not my place to tell you.” He looked at the bathroom door, then back at Tico. “I…”

“I think you need to though.”

Richie nodded, staring down at the floor. “Shit. They didn’t just work him over, Tico. They… They fucking raped him. And left him tied up on the bed. He was barely conscious when I found him, and… and I don’t know how long he’d been there.” 

Tico paled. “They raped him?” 

“Yeah. And I don't know what to do. Should I try and talk to him about it, or do I let him come to me when… if he wants to?" Richie shook his head. "He's trying to act like it didn't happen but he's really jumpy and he keeps over-reacting. It's kinda like…"

“He doesn’t want to remember it. Can you blame him?”

Richie shook his head.” Oh, God, no. Not at all. I just…” He looked up, brown eyes meeting the drummer’s. “Tico, what’s gonna happen when he can't forget?” 

"I don't know. You're just gonna have to be there for him. Pick up the pieces and help him put them back together if that's what's needed."

Richie nodded. "Yeah," he replied quietly. They both looked towards the bathroom door at the sound of the bath emptying. 

"I should go," Tico decided, standing up. "And I won't let on what you've told me, Rich, don't worry. Jon trusts you right now and he's gonna need you before this is over." 

"Yeah." Richie nodded, sitting back in the chair as Tico walked out the door, trying to relax before Jon came out from the bathroom.


End file.
